


there's a place i know (when you're looking for a show)

by folignos



Category: Hockey RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:32:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2335433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folignos/pseuds/folignos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PK misses his first class of the year for the third year running, and is twenty minutes late for his second.</p><p>Higher education is not going well for him.</p><p>(Or: PK keeps seeing Carey naked. It's about as awkward as you'd imagine.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a place i know (when you're looking for a show)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bullwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bullwolf/gifts).



> my first exchange fic for bullwolf, who wanted a pk/pricey college au. this is very little college things and lots of pricey's butt. i tried.
> 
> eternal thanks and gratitude to jenna for fixing my commas/grammar/general life choices
> 
> title from

PK misses his first class of the year for the third year running, and is twenty minutes late for his second. 

Higher education is not going well for him.

When he finally stumbles through the door into his life drawing class, he's struck first by how many people there are, and then by the guy in the middle of the room in a robe, texting. His hair is falling into his eyes just a little, and his jaw is strong and defined. PK wants to draw him  _so badly_.

He drops into the closest seat he can find and drags his sketchpad and supplies onto the table, spreading them haphazardly while he has the space for it. The professor, a small guy with floppy hair and a lilting accent, eyeballs him before going back to his lecture. PK mostly just makes sure he has everything he needs, tunes out the words right up until he hears, 'This is Carey, he's one of our models, and probably the one you'll be seeing the most of.'  

Carey snorts at that, looks up from his phone with a grin, and waves at the class sarcastically before dropping his gaze to his screen again. PK looks at the slope of his nose and picks up a mechanical pencil automatically.  

The professor talks for a long time, and PK gets bored quickly, sketches a few rough practices first of him pacing in front of them, and then of Carey, sprawled in his seat, chin resting on his chest. Eventually, the professor says, 'I'll leave them to you, Carey,' and retreats to his desk in the corner. PK flips to a fresh sheet of paper.  

Carey tucks his phone into a pocket on the robe, stands up and undoes the belt, letting it fall open before he shrugs it off his shoulders and lets it pool around his feet. 

PK tries really hard not to stare. He does.  

Carey spins the chair and sits on it backwards, forearms slung over the top, crossed at the wrists, and then bows his head, closes his eyes. PK watches the shift of muscles in his back and snaps the lead in his pencil. 

He manages to get a loose sketch out eventually and then swaps his pencil for charcoal, and after that he sinks into the rhythm of it, swiping charcoal across the clean paper and smudging it into shadows. He doesn't even realise class is over until he glances up from his work and Carey's sliding his robe back on, tying the belt loosely and tapping away at his phone again as he heads into a different room, comes back out wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. 

PK takes his time washing the charcoal off his hands at the sink in the corner, listens to the professor (Dr B, apparently) and Carey talking in varying degrees of fluent French. Money exchanges hands, and PK ends up heading for the door at the same time as Carey, who holds the door open for him, and grunts when PK thanks him. 

'I'm PK,' PK says on a whim, holding out the hand not full of art supplies out. Carey shakes it after a pause.

'Carey,' he says. He doesn't smile. 

'So, how long have you been doing this?' PK asks. They start walking down the corridor together.  

Carey shrugs. 'Couple of years. Gotta pay the rent somehow.'

PK nods. 'I feel that, man.' 

They part when they get out of the building, Carey raising his hand in a half wave before he drops his eyes back to his phone and wanders off. PK only doesn't watch him go because he gets distracted by a girl walking past with turquoise hair and three hoops in her eyebrow. She drops onto a bench outside the building and pulls out a pouch of tobacco, begins rolling a cigarette.

PK rummages for a crayon the same colour as her hair, props himself up underneath a sprawling tree, and sketches her as covertly as he can. 

By the time he's done, he's late for his third class of the day. He breaks into a run across the quad, swearing under his breath. 

- 

The next time PK sees Carey, he's naked again, covered by an artfully draped blanket, shadows falling across the planes of his stomach.

'We should really stop meeting like this,' PK says, in the doorway of his apartment. Carey has a mole on his hip, just above the dip of his pelvis. 

He stretches, and the blanket gets dangerously close to slipping off. 'Gonna draw me again?' Carey asks, propping himself up on his elbows. He's slurring his words a little, and his eyes are sliding a little shut. He looks... well, like he's been well fucked.

'Where's Brandon?' PK asks, dropping into the armchair, and then, 'Did you guys have to have sex on the couch?' 

'Class. Also yes. He couldn't find the keys to his room, and we were. Uh. Racing the clock a little.' 

'Can I draw you?' PK asks, impulsively. Carey smirks, stretches out across the sofa again, throwing one arm above his head and dropping the other onto his stomach. The thin blanket is leaving exactly nothing to the imagination. 

'I have to go to work in...' Carey checks his watch. 'Forty five minutes.' His smirk gets a little wider. 'Draw fast.' 

-

'Do you actually own any clothing?' PK asks, pulling his own shirt off. 

Carey scowls at him, wraps a towel around his waist. 'The locker room at a gym is a legitimate place to be naked,' he points out. His hair is curling, damp, and there are droplets of water dusted along his shoulders, trailing down his chest.

PK grins back, takes a swallow of water from his bottle, and strips his shorts off before heading for the shower. When he gets out, Carey's wearing underwear, bending over his bag as he digs through it, pulls out a pair of jeans. PK doesn't pretend he's not disappointed. 

- 

The next time PK sees Carey, it's in the library. 

'Nice glasses,' Carey says, nudging at him on the way past with a small stack of books. PK winks, and then looks him up and down. 

'I  _knew_  you had to wear clothes sometimes,' he says, quirking an eyebrow. Carey throws a wad of paper at him. 

'I'm using this half of the table,' he says, and shoves PK's stuff back to his own half. PK rolls his eyes, and looks at the books Carey's stacking up; organic farming, fertilizer, animal husbandry. 

'What the hell even is your major?' PK blurts. Carey laughs. 

'Agricultural sciences.' 

'...huh,' PK says. Carey looks like he wants to defend himself. 'Never pegged you for a farm kid.' 

'Grew up on a ranch in BC,' Carey says. He's flipping through a book on agroforestry with one hand and occasionally making notes with the other. Sometimes, he'll pause, look at his notes, and flip backwards through the pages. 'I like farming.'

PK nods. 'That's cool.'

Carey looks at him. 'Cool,' he echoes.

'At least you have job prospects when you graduate, man,' PK says. 'My current long term plan is to move back home and live off my parents forever.' 

Carey laughs again, more genuinely this time. 'Not planning on becoming the next Degas?' 

PK's laugh is startled out of him. 'What's a farm kid doing knowing about Degas?' 

'Life model,' Carey says. 'I spend a lot of time around pretentious artists talking about a) themselves or b) "great artists".' He punctuates the last two words with air quotes. 

'Present company excepted,' PK prods at him. 

Carey shrugs. 'I guess so.' PK prods harder, and Carey laughs, wriggles away. 

Shockingly, PK doesn't get a ton of work done that night, but he doesn't think Carey does either, so it's okay. 

- 

He doesn't see Carey for a couple of weeks after that, clothed or otherwise. Professor Briere has a rotating door of life models, claiming the best way to learn is to force yourself to draw something wildly different each time. 

PK agrees on principle, but in practice, he hasn't seen Carey naked in like three weeks. He's only human.

Apparently the thing with Brandon was a one off, because PK's roommate is now dating a beautiful French Canadian girl who swears more than he does and can drink both him and PK under the table. PK adores her.

She decides they're all going out clubbing that night (code: she wants to be able to grind on Brandon in public, and PK, in all fairness, does not blame her). PK isn't particularly upset by this. He  _loves_  clubbing.

He especially loves clubbing at The Bell, because he knows he can find at least one person up for a little making out and maybe a friendly handjob at the end of the night.

True to form, he finds Larry, who is  _always_  up for some platonic making out and post orgasm cuddling. Larry is PK's favourite, really. 

They kiss lazily for a while, barely even grinding on each other, sprawled against each other against a wall in the shadows, and PK pulls away to suggest heading back to his.

He sees Carey out of the corner of his eye, in a white shirt that all the light bounces off of. He looks like he's wearing UV light, and PK can see the sweat soaking him from ten feet away. He's dancing with his eyes closed, arms in the air. Between the flashes of light, it looks like he's naked from the waist up. PK is... distracted.

Larry elbows him. 'You're not subtle,' he says into the shell of PK's ear, hand lingering on his hip. PK tears his eyes away from Carey.

'Shut up,' he says. Larry smirks. 

'Whatever, man, I can pick someone else up. Go stare at him some more,' Larry says, and then adds something in Danish. PK flips him off, but he's already making a beeline for a tall blond guy with a nose ring and a half shaved head. PK rolls his eyes, and looks around for Carey again.

The people around him have started to pair of, but he's still dancing alone. PK slides up behind him, puts his hands on his hips, pulls them flush. Carey shifts, leans against him, tilts his head back. 'Hey,' PK says in his ear.

Carey says nothing, smirks, and rolls his hips. PK grins, tightens his grip, and they dance. PK hooks his chin over Carey's shoulder, mouths at his neck and jaw slowly, gives Carey a chance to move away. He doesn't move away, pushing his ass back into PK's hips before turning into him. 

PK kisses him because he figures he might as well. Carey grins into it, bites at his bottom lip, sharp, before swiping his tongue into PK's mouth. He's taller than PK, crowds into him and forces his head to tilt upward, one hand on his neck, pressing into the underside of his jaw. He tastes like vodka and sweat. It's gross. PK is really into it anyway. 

PK loops his arms around Carey's neck and tilts his head again for Carey to bite at the muscle of his neck. He presses a sucking kiss there, and PK can feel the blood rising to the surface, can feel arousal starting in the pit of his stomach.

He runs his hands down Carey's ribs, and the cut of muscle there, presses his thumbs into the divot of his hips. 'Wanna come back to mine?' he asks, lips pressed to the corner of Carey's mouth.

Carey pulls away. PK has no idea what the expression on his face is. 'Uh,' Carey says. 'I don't, not really, uh.' He stops, looks a little helpless. 'I should go,' he says, maybe shouts into PK's ear and then untangles himself.

And he goes, leaves PK in the crowd with a bruise on his neck and swollen lips and the need to get fucked.

-

Because PK's life is the worst, when he gets to life drawing class on Monday, Carey's sitting on the bench in the middle of the room, robe tied loosely. He looks up when PK comes in, and drops his gaze almost immediately.  

PK might make a little more noise than necessary setting up, and he might keep his eyes fixed firmly on his sketchbook, but it doesn't mean anything, okay? It's just, whatever.

When the class goes silent, and he hears the slide of Carey's robe dropping, he gives it to a count of three to look up. Carey's laid himself out on the bench on his back, one arm behind his head, one flat on his stomach, one knee in the air. It's exactly how he lay in PK's apartment last month, hair mussed, eyes unfocused and lazy, only this time his hair is flat, and he's staring at the ceiling, the same, tuned-out expression all the models have.

PK's sketch is heavier this week, darker lines slashed across the page. They're vaguer, too, less detailed, more abstract than the careful shadows he normally fills in. He probably won't keep it, but he initials and dates it anyway at the end of class.

He has everything from that class spread out across a table in the library later, organising them into a binder for his portfolio, when a shadow falls over his shoulder. A hand reaches out to pick up the newest one.

'This one is different to the others.' Of course it's Carey. Of course. 

'Go away, I'm angry at you,' PK says, looks up to take the sketch off him. Carey sits down in the chair opposite him. 'That's not going away,' PK says.

'I was a dick the other night,' Carey says. He's looking at his hands. PK watches him, silent. 'So. Uh. I'm apologising. For being a dick? That was uh, not buddies.' 

Buddies. Ouch. PK looks back down at his drawings. 

'Wait,' Carey says. 'Not buddies. Or, not not buddies?' 

'I don't understand what you're saying to me right now,' PK says. Carey makes a weird, aborted hand gesture, and looks mildly distressed. 

'I don't do this a lot,' he admits. 

'Apologise to people?' 

Carey makes another weird hand gesture and half shrugs. '...Kinda?'

'Maybe you should do it more often,' PK says. 'Practice makes perfect, and all.' 

Carey cracks a tiny, wary smile at that.

'Can we start again?' he asks. 'Like. Pretend you haven't seen me naked, what, six times already?'

'Eight,' PK corrects, but he's grinning. 

'God,' Carey says, putting his head in his hands. 'We totally did this backwards, didn't we?'

PK shrugs. 'Little bit. I'm okay with it. Wanna get dinner?'

Carey sputters. 

'Was that not where this was going?' PK asks. 'Only I have class in...' He makes a show of checking his watch. 'Twenty minutes. We're working to a deadline here, Price.'

'Way to steal my thunder,  _Subban_ ,' Carey says, kicks at him under the table. 'I'll pick you up at eight.'

'Sure,' PK says. 'Dress nice, I'm picking the place.' 

Carey squints at him. 'Don't I get to pick the place? I'm driving.' 

PK laughs, starts gathering his drawings. 'You can choose on the second date.' 

Carey keeps squinting. 'Fine.' 

They stand up at the same time, PK shouldering his backpack and tucking his phone into his pocket. Carey ducks his head suddenly, kisses PK quickly. PK can feel him smiling into the kiss, tilts his head into it. 

Someone wolf whistles at them and they break apart. The tips of Carey's ears are pink. 

'Shut up,' he says, reflexively. PK just grins wider, and smacks him on the ass. 

'See you tonight, babe,' he says, and winks. 'Wear your good underwear.' 

Carey leans in, smirks, says, 'You already know I don't wear any,' and vanishes further into the library. PK watches him leave, and can't keep the smile off his face. 

He's late to class. 

It's worth it.


End file.
